


If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out

by mia6363



Series: Sing Among the Stars [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Blatant Thievery of Mass Effect and Star Trek terminology, Descriptions of Off-Screen murder, Fluff and Angst, Knotting, M/M, One Hell of a Road Trip, off-screen violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 06:26:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7673560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia6363/pseuds/mia6363
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Commander Stilinski looked like he fell out of a propaganda video, his armor still smoking as he pulled off his helmet and handed it off to First Officer Argent. He had a few bruises down his neck but his smile was bright. </p>
<p>“Glad to see you safe and sound, Mr. Hale. I’d hate for Derek to lose a member of his family.” </p>
<p>“I <i>told</i> you,” Derek snapped at his superior, “he’s not worth this, Commander.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out

Allison met Stiles Stilinski before he had the numerous medals on his uniform and earned the rank of Commander. She didn’t often linger or romanticize the past but Stiles—Commander Stilinski had the habit of bringing out the unusual in people.

She’d known him in the Federation Academy, his eyes wider, a little naïve but his wit never lost its bite. 

“So,” a then skinny stranger said to her, “how many times have you gone through this simulation?” He narrowed his eyes. Her long brown hair had been braided down her back with the sides of her head shaved. The students stared at the Argent family history tattooed on her skin. Stiles had been the first to only look at her eyes. “Five? Six?” 

Allison straightened her posture. 

“This will be my third attempt Cadet…”

“Stilinski. But you can call me Stiles. It’s less of a mouthful, Cadet…”

“Argent.”

She didn’t offer her first name. She stood at the ready, waiting in line to face the infamous Linnea-Grace aptitude test. Federation technology was utilized to make realistic artificial combat scenarios and hostiles. The Admirals and Commanders who would be selecting them for their ships would study their best test scores. 

She studied Stiles to distract herself. 

He was very odd looking. Distinct, unlike any species Allison had ever seen in a subtle way, and she’d seen _a lot_. His skin was pale and looked thin and soft. He walked on two legs, which wasn’t exactly uncommon, but it narrowed down all the planets he could be from and still he had the most unique features Allison had seen. His bone structure was softer and less sharp then Allison’s, his nose came to a rounded point, and his lips were in a lush bow-shape. 

She opened her mouth to ask the question, _What are you?_ She sucked in a breath when she realized just how rude and awful it was and she snapped her jaw shut. She winced when she bit her tongue. 

“Tell you what,” Stiles bounced on the balls of his feet eagerly. “If I nail this will you show me a decent place to eat around here? I’m sick of the mess hall food. I want to make friends.” He grinned at her and when he wagged his eyebrows Allison didn’t feel repulsed. She felt herself smiling back. “You seem like a good friend to have.” 

Allison chuckled because he looked delicate with his slender hands and pink cheeks. 

“Sure.” She smirked. It would be the first and only time she underestimated the future Commander. “I’ll be eager to study your techniques.” 

He threw his head back and laughed loudly before his name was called. 

She was shocked when he entered the room and moved with brutal efficiency. He was sloppy but effective, using his standard issued phaser, his hands, and teeth to bring down each opponent. He limped from the room, his mouth stained red and his chest heaving for air. 

He leaned in close, his breath brushing her ear. 

“The phasers they gave us have a half-second delay and will shoot three degrees to the right.” He held his weapon out to her. “Want to use mine?” 

She beat his time by fifteen seconds and gave him his weapon after. She showed him her favorite intergalactic market. 

They ended up sitting in the corner of the main strip. Allison watched Stiles eat what seemed to he half his weight in spicy noodles. Later, after they grew comfortable with each other, he’d admit that he’d wanted proper nutrients and he hoped since Allison shared a lot of his physical traits that their bodies would crave the same foods. 

But that was much later. 

Stiles rubbed his hand over his stomach, some sauce lingering at the corner of his mouth. 

“Can I ask you a weird question?”

“Sure.” Allison wondered what an oddity such as Stiles would think of as strange “I just don’t know if I’ll be able to answer.” 

“Never hurts to try.” He smiled but his eyes had that hardened sheen to them, the same look he got before he went to defeat his test. “Have you ever heard of a planet covered in green vegetation and water called Earth?” 

Allison remembered that she smiled and waited for a joke or maybe a fable. Stiles was silent, staring at her, and she laughed softly. 

“No, what is it?”

Stiles sighed and put some credits down on the table. 

“Nothing. Just a weird thing I heard.”

He was adamant about getting her communicator line. Stiles became a reliable lunch and dinner companion, and it didn’t surprise Allison that they would skyrocket in their careers together.

:::

Lydia didn’t like Stiles when she first encountered him.

He was nosy, always asking the crew about the planets they came from, the cultures, the food they ate—but rarely provided answers about himself if asked. She almost wished he were as dumb as he acted because that would have made his transgressions easier to swallow. 

He was one of the youngest First Officers on a Federation ship. His intelligence and strategy were unmatched and he took perverse pleasure in seeing through disguises and enemy defenses. Allison Argent was his best friend—and Argents didn’t grant trust to morons. 

“That is just so cool, like, a religion solely about the wonder of language. It makes sense; it’s one of those miracle things, like music. If there’s proof of the divine it would be in—”

“First Officer Stilinski, as much as I love talking about the theology of my people I would also like to finish my lunch before Beta Shift.”

“Right.” His usually pale skin turned pink. “Right, my apologies, Ensign Martin.” 

He left her table at the mess hall, turning before he could see Lydia roll her eyes. 

Stiles would talk to anyone who’d stick around and he always made his way back to her. She couldn’t have been more obvious in her distaste with her body language and tone of voice—but still he persisted. 

She thought it might have been an unrequited affection, that the desperate gleam in his eyes was hormonal. But he never made a move; every time she’d close herself off he’d stutter and back away to give her space. 

Lydia thought it would be several years before she went on an Alpha ground mission, but near the end of her first year her CO pulled her aside from her communications module. 

“Ensign Martin.”

“Yes sir?”

“Your presence has been requested on the bridge.” 

Lydia broke out into a sweat as she went to the transporter, her stomach dropping as it _whooshed_ to the bridge in a matter of seconds. She saluted and strode out with a confident posture to disguise her trembling knees. Commander Fox turned in his chair, his hair grey and all six of his blue eyes regarding her. 

“Ensign Martin, you’ve been highly recommended by First Officer Stilinski for your ability in linguistics and ancient languages.” 

Lydia glanced at the First Officer and he flashed her a quick smile. She bristled, returning her gaze to the Commander. 

“I’m happy to provide service. What can I do for you?”

She felt numb as she stood with the Alpha team as they discussed their mission, to retrieve a stolen ancient text from deep inside enemy territory. Sparks bubbled under her skin when Commander Fox said he would be a part of the away team and that Lydia would be with _him_ , the others acting as their cover. 

Now was her chance to be seen and she wouldn’t let the opportunity pass through her fingers. First Officer Stilinski stayed on the ship, in constant contact with them on their communicators. 

It was everything Lydia believed an away mission to be—dangerous, exhilarating, and euphoric unlike anything she’d ever experienced. She returned to the ship, the ancient text in one hand and bleeding from a gash to her side—but she couldn’t stop grinning. 

“Good work, Ensign.” Commander Fox squeezed her shoulder, his eyes wrinkling at the corners. “I hope to see you on the bridge soon.” 

“Yes, sir.” Lydia was barely able to keep from stammering as she handed the text over. “Me too, sir.” 

She rode that high for a week until, once again, First Officer Stilinski chewed on a straw at her table in the mess hall. 

“Wow, so out of all the galaxies your planet has the most advanced vocal chords? So how do you begin with languages and text analysis if a language is dead or completely new?” 

Lydia ground her teeth, her eyes flashing their iridescence in irritation. 

“I doubt a language would be _unheard_ of.” The First Officer hummed and tilted his head to the side like he wasn’t sure. Lydia pushed her food away, too angry to eat as she turned to face him. “We sing each part of the word until it fits other patterns we find in languages that still live today. Singing is the only way to deactivate our universal translators.”

She tapped her right temple, at her silver installation. The First Officer touched his gold piece, his fingers lingering at the pink skin between the thin veins of alloy. His whole face slackened when his mouth opened and…

He sang. 

Lydia’s eyes lost their fiery flickers of aggravation, but they remained wide. By the grace of her ancestors she remembered to record him. 

The universal translator technology had been a breakthrough and began an era of unity. When Lydia first had it installed she felt a great unease at how people’s lips wouldn’t match the movements and tones of the voice she heard in her ears, but as time passed it became second nature. Singing helped her remember what her own voice sounded like. 

Stiles’s face lost something, like a thin mask had been stripped away as he continued to sing, his lips finally matching his words. He shed years off his face, his brown eyes shining. Lydia felt something akin to horror bloom in her chest because he looked like a child—singing with no shame in a language that Lydia had never heard. She’d been harsh, rude, and belligerent to not just a superior, but a child—

He stopped suddenly. He glanced around and noticed that it wasn’t just Lydia staring—it was the entire mess hall.

“Oh, neat.” Lydia recoiled at his mismatched lips and slight robotic overlay on his voice. “Thanks for the trick, Ensign.” 

Years passed, Stiles became the Commander and somewhere along the way the crew became legendary. Lydia saved that audio file and would parrot it to the best of her ability, pushing past the discomfort of forming syntax she couldn’t understand. She was on the Alpha team, and it was a year since smiling at the Commander was full of warmth and not sarcasm. 

They shared an off-shift dinner together in the quiet mess hall when Stiles asked her about a planet she’d never heard of. 

::::

Peter Hale met Stiles Stilinski the way he imaged most ran into the legendary Federation Commander—in a time of extreme turmoil and danger. 

He opened the communications hub on The Den, a planet for criminals, exiles—all rejects and outcasts. His hands were still sizzling, the smell of his burned skin turning his stomach as he sought out any channel from a nearby ship. Peter brightened when he finally locked on a nearby vessel—

Of course his luck would run dry and it would be a Federation ship. 

_“This is Commander Stilinski of the FSS Beacon speaking.”_

Peter’s stomach clenched. It was one thing seeing the Commander on news updates and video clips, it was another thing entirely to be addressed by him. 

“Shit, I—” Peter took a long breath. “This is a distress call from The Den.” He saw the Commander’s eyes widen. The Den, until now, had been completely off the Federation’s radar despite their searches. “There’s been a hostile takeover from a mercenary group, if you could pass along a word to anyone who will listen that whoever ends this occupation will get all of my part of the Hale fortune I would appreciate—”

_“Wait a second.”_ Someone was pounding at the door Peter had haphazardly welded shut. He didn’t _have_ a second. _“You’re a Hale?”_

“Yes.” Peter growled, his face shifting in anger. “Please pass along the message soon. My money isn’t much good if I’m dead.” 

The metal squealed behind him as Commander Stilinski’s mouth split into a wide grin. 

_“Just sit tight, Mr. Hale. The Beacon is on its way.”_

The connection was cut and Peter surrendered his body to the Beast. His bones snapped and reformed, his teeth elongated into fangs, and coarse fur covered his usually smooth and perfectly exfoliated skin. The door broke and Peter roared. 

Stiles Stilinski was a celebrity. It was easy to see why. He had a unique face and body, he was young, and he was a hero. Peter tore through mercenaries until all that was left was viscera that clung to his teeth. If he lived through the occupation he’d be glad to know that the infallible Commander could sell out like everyone else. 

Peter wasn’t sure how much time had passed before he came back to his more civilized self, naked, bruised, and laid out on slab of rock. He had time to ache from his wounds when rough hands grabbed at him. Peter snarled, dragging his fist back, only to stop when he saw his nephew. 

“Derek, the Federation colors don’t do any favors for your skin tone.”

“Shut up.” It was good to know that Derek was just as articulate as Peter remembered. “Where are your clothes—forget it. Come on.” 

Peter marched nude past survivors that sat in the town square. Everyone was battle worn, and a few friends smirked at Peter. Peter puffed out his chest, embracing his nakedness. He was beautiful; everyone was lucky to have a taste. He strode past dozens of cadets, ensigns, until he was presented to the Alpha Crew.

Commander Stilinski looked like he fell out of a propaganda video, his armor still smoking as he pulled off his helmet and handed it off to First Officer Argent. He had a few bruises down his neck but his smile was bright. 

“Glad to see you safe and sound, Mr. Hale. I’d hate for Derek to lose a member of his family.” 

“I _told_ you,” Derek snapped at his superior, “he’s not worth this, Commander.” 

The Commander waved his hand.

“Psh. We came, we kicked ass, and we saved the day.” He _winked_ and Peter had to admit he was starting to understand the hype around this kid. “All in a day’s work on the Beacon.” 

Peter smirked. 

“I’m sure the financial incentive of my fortune was a draw as well.” 

The smile fell from the Commander’s face and Derek kicked out the back of Peter’s legs. He landed hard on his knees. He didn’t see why the Commander was so distraught. Even if he split it with the entire crew it would be more money than any of them could spend in a lifetime. 

“Attention, citizens of The Den!” Peter looked up to see First Officer Argent speaking to the crowd. “We need to refuel. Some plasma ammo cartridges would be helpful, but it it’s not necessary.” 

The Den burst into movement and Peter rolled his eyes when quite a few asked for autographs. He was surprised when the Commander agreed, happily signing casts, armor, and even antique weapons. 

“Turns out,” The Commander’s said in an overly cheery voice, “our navigation system had a glitch so we have no way of retrieving our current coordinates. We’ll be out of your hair shortly.” He approached Peter. Each step made Derek’s grip tighten. He crouched down so that he was eye-to-eye with Peter. “Thanks for the offer, but those enlisted in the Federation are not permitted to take bribes or bounties. I will ask, if you don’t mind, for a favor.”

“It would be my pleasure, Commander.” Peter purred. “What can I do for you?” 

The Commander smirked right back at him. 

“I don’t know yet. You seem like you’re worth more than your money, Mr. Hale. Once I know what I need I’ll let you know.”

He left after he gave Peter his private frequency. Peter would sometimes send messages down the Commander’s line, check-ins waiting to pay the favor, but he never got a response… until three years passed. 

_Calling in my favor._ The message pinged and woke Peter from his sleep. _Be at the Omega Base off the Coral Rim in three days. I’ll meet you at the Rose Bar._

Peter went. 

The Bar was loud, dark with only colored lights acting as his guide. He almost didn’t recognize the Commander.

Without his armor Peter saw just how skinny Commander Stilinski was. It made his primal Beast want to feed him, but Peter quieted that animal’s voice. The Commander stood, his smile a beacon. 

“Hey. Glad you could make it, Mr. Hale.” The Commander slid over to make room for him. Peter took the drink the Commander offered him. “Was it a long trip?” 

“I’ve had worse.” Peter leaned in close, turning his back to the bar to shield their conversation from any eavesdroppers. “What can I do for you, Commander?”

“Call me Stiles, Mr. Hale.” 

“Very well, Stiles. As long as you call me Peter.” The name was odd on his tongue. “What favor can I do for you?”

“Uh… I had two ideas. And the first,” Stiles flushed, his eyes darting around at the crowd before he lowered his voice, “the first you don’t _have_ to agree to or anything. Like, there’s no pressure—”

“Just spit it out.” Peter growled, ignoring how uneasy it made him to see the Commander so nervous. “I don’t have delicate sensibilities.”

“Will you have sex with me?” Peter was glad he didn’t take a sip of his drink or else he would have spit it out. His eyes widened and Stiles hugged his arms around his middle. “You don’t have to. God, I’d never force—”

“Yes.” Peter’s mouth was dry and he struggled to even out his breathing. “Yes, but that isn’t your favor.” He snatched one of Stiles’s flailing hands and kissed it, pressing his teeth against his warm skin. “It would be my privilege.” 

“O-Oh.” Stiles was only flustered for a moment before his confident mask slid back into place. “Worth the long trip?”

“Mmm.” Peter growled against Stiles’s wrist, and then licked up the inside of his arm, chasing Stiles’s rapid heartbeat. “Very.” 

The ride back to Peter’s hotel was quick. Stiles was only clumsy once they were alone. His hands shook as he removed his shirt and pants, and when he saw that Peter was already naked his eyes shot to the ceiling. 

“You’ve already seen me naked.”

“That was under extremely different circumstances.” 

His skin was pale and his body was generously painted in scars. He was lean, his muscles defined but not obtrusive. Peter ran his hand up Stiles’s back to feel his vertebrae. His skin jumped and Peter withdrew his fingers. 

“I don’t have sex with people who don’t want to.” 

“I do!” Stiles turned, his cheeks red. “I’m just nervous. As a Commander I can’t have relations with the crew since that would be a massive misuse of authority so…”

“You’ve been out of practice.” 

“Sure.” Stiles smiled. “Let’s go with that.” 

Peter kissed him because he hadn’t been able to stop staring at his lips since the Commander had first awkwardly asked for sex. They were just as soft as he’d imagined, and when Peter bit down on them Stiles moaned loudly, like the pleasure startled him.

“Bed.” Peter growled. “Get on the bed.” 

“You got it.” 

Stiles backed up until his legs hit the mattress. Peter stalked toward him and dropped to his knees, pushing apart Stiles’s legs. He pulled down his underwear and his cock throbbed when a wave of pheromones nearly bowled him over. 

“This will take the edge off.” 

Before Stiles could retort with something witty, Peter dragged his tongue along the seam of this thigh before wrapping his lips around Stiles’s cock. 

“O-Okay—okay, _shit_ —” When he whimpered Peter’s name it must have registered to the universal translator as singing because suddenly the technology was stripped from his voice. “Fuck, Peter, _Peter_ —”

Peter enjoyed making his lovers wait and plead for their pleasure, to make every caress an hour, an endless divine torture. But that wouldn’t knock the nerves out of Stiles’s system. Making the Commander writhe—that would come later. 

He slid his fingers from Stiles’s thighs to just behind his balls and he pressed up and—

Stiles shouted, his hips grinding down while his hands pulled at the sheets, his mind not knowing if he wanted to chase his pleasure or escape it. Peter swirled his tongue around the head and gave him a merciless suck. 

Stiles came with a silent gasp and a violent shudder, his body arching, curling around Peter. His knees bracketed Peter’s shoulders, making Peter’s bones creak until Stiles went limp. He pitched forward and Peter had to let Stiles’s spent cock slip from his lips so that he could catch him. Stiles trembled, but Peter knew it was due to aftershocks and not nerves. The Commander kissed Peter’s temple quickly before he rubbed his cheek against Peter’s mussed hair. 

“Holy shit. So much better than my hand.” Stiles slid away, hitting Peter’s shoulder. “Get up here. I’m doing that right back—all over you.” 

Stiles licked his lips and waggled his eyebrows and it took every ounce of Peter’s self control to not take the Commander by the shoulders and fuck that beautiful face. 

“Not today.” Before Stiles’s smile could drop Peter surged forward and kissed him, loving how Stiles sucked on his tongue, teasing him. Peter pulled back and shivered at the slide of skin-on-skin. “Do you want me to fuck you or do you want to fuck me?” 

Stiles’s pupils bled black and Peter was impressed when the Commander’s cock began to fill. 

“Good God.” He bit his lip, worrying the bruised bit of flesh between his teeth. “That’s not an easy choice, Peter.” 

“Whatever you decide now… we can do the other next time.” 

Stiles groaned. 

“Fuck me.” Peter arched an eyebrow and Stiles laughed. “Yeah. Fuck me, that’s my choice.” 

Peter shuddered, almost coming from those words. He drew Stiles in for a harsh kiss that was more about teeth than tongue. 

He took his time. He had the Commander writhing, begging when Peter sucked on his nipples, keening when he squeezed the man’s cock to keep him from coming, and then crying out Peter’s name when he licked even lower with his erection. 

It made sense if Peter took the time to think about Stiles coming to him for a quick fuck. Favoritism, especially from someone as decorated and renowned as himself would tear his ship apart. Yes, Peter thought between thrusts, it made perfect sense. 

Stiles rode him, his body stretching beautifully. Peter kept his hands on Stiles’s hips, guiding him so that his cock dragged against the place that made Stiles’s breath freeze and heart shudder. 

“Oh God,” Stiles was blind to everything that wasn’t his own pleasure, nonsense spilling from his mouth. “This,” he came, and Peter barely heard him whisper, “this is what they were talking about.”

Peter froze, Stiles’s release painting his chest. A savage white heat consumed Peter, his blood boiling and his cock swelling. He came with a howl as the word _virgin_ roared through his being. 

He drifted, only for a few moments until Stiles pinched his nose. 

“Wake up.” Peter cracked open his eyes. “I don’t want to alarm you, but your dick is kinda swollen. Inside me.” He wasn’t in pain, not after the hours of preparation and foreplay Peter patiently bestowed, but he was still surprised. He shuddered and gasped, jerking when Peter’s cock surged against his prostate. “Oh God are you—are you still coming?” 

Peter rolled his hips but stopped when Stiles shook his head and whispered “too much.” 

“It’s a rather outdated aspect of my biology.” They both mewled when Stiles shifted so he was lying down on Peter’s chest. “Originally it was meant for breeding purposes. It usually doesn’t happen.” 

Stiles hummed like he didn’t believe Peter. He was smart not to. They remained tied for so long that when Peter finally slid free Stiles let out a confused noise. Peter cleaned them up, expecting to rest for a bit before another round, when Stiles sat up. 

“If you’re serious about this not being my favor, then I do have something that will fit the bill.” 

He was not strictly Commander and yet was not the witty Stiles. In that moment he lingered somewhere between the two, his eyes dark and his frown aging his features. Peter ran a clawed hand down Stiles’s back. 

“I’m all ears.” 

Stiles tugged on Peter’s pointed ears with a fleeting smile. 

“I want you to let me know if you hear anything involving an unregistered planet.” Though he spoke with lazy casualness his heartbeat raced. “It supports life and…” Stiles swallowed, his voice thick. “It’s covered in water and green plants.” 

Peter would have scoffed it hadn’t been Commander Stilinski asking him. A planet that was covered in naturally occurring water? It was laughable, too outrageous even to be a fairytale. 

“I’ll keep a lookout for anything that fits that description.” Stiles opened his mouth but his communicator chirped. He opened it, his eyes scanning the text before he stood and began to search for his clothes. Peter sagged back against the bed, his body spent. “Going already?” 

“Yup. Looks like I need to overlook something in—” He cut himself off and cleared his throat. “Yes, I do.” 

“Not enough time for you to fuck me?” The Commander fumbled with his belt, his cheeks flushed a shade of scarlet that made Peter’s skin tighten and his mouth water. Peter’s fangs dropped and he knew his eyes were shining bright blue. “I’m curious.” 

“Ah, uh—no, not enough time for that.” Stiles did up his pants and smoothed down his shirt. When he met Peter’s eyes his shoulders were rigid, his posture pure military perfection. “Next time. I’ll let you know when we’re granted another shore leave.” 

The Commander was gone with a nod and a crooked smile. 

::::

Stiles annoyed Derek Hale long before they met. 

Derek stared at the grim-faced Admiral and back to the mountain of Non-Disclosure Agreements that threatened to topple off his desk. He took a long breath, his jaw clenched tight as he grabbed a pen. 

“Is this really necessary? I’ve already signed a NDA upon my enrollment, not to mention doctor-patient confidentiality has been a practice for millennia—”

“Doctor Hale, if you do not sign these forms than we will find someone who will and they will serve in your place aboard the Beacon.” 

Derek straightened his back, not flinching at the Admiral’s stare. 

“Understood, _sir_. Please have a seat while I read through these.” 

He thought that some General’s kid had an embarrassing STI that they didn’t want getting out, and during the Beacon’s round of check-ups he waited for the brat in question, but what he got was Stiles. 

The First Officer slunk into Derek’s office and Derek already had a headache from the whole crew and their biology. The Alpha Crew was always the last to go. Derek opened Stiles’s file on his tablet. His head throbbed when all that come up under “history” was the date Stiles enrolled in the Federation Academy. 

“Why is your file incomplete, Officer?” Derek growled. As CMO he superseded the Commander when it came to medical matters. Derek glared at the First Officer. “Well?”

“My file is an accurate representation of me, _doctor_.” 

“Bullshit.” Derek tossed the tablet to the side. “You’re the reason I had to sign all those damn NDAs, aren’t you?” 

The First Officer stilled and that was all the answer Derek needed. He drew in a long breath to tell him off, to demand his birth planet and medical history—but then he took the time to study Stiles Stilinski. 

He had rounded ears and a nose that was too narrow to explain his pupil-shape, and the smattering of brown spots on his skin seemed purely decorative or an anomaly in his genetic code. The more traits Derek took in the more he realized that all the pieces didn’t fit together. 

Icy chills ran down his spine. Derek swallowed, his throat bone dry as he recalled the punishments for breaking the NDAs. He thought, viciously, that this was above his pay grade. 

“How old are you?”

He could keep calm if he started small and ignored the looming wave of questions Derek didn’t necessarily want answers to.

“Um.” Derek’s stomach turned when Stiles hugged his lean arms over his stomach. “I’m not exactly sure. Is that important?”

“ _Yes_ , that’s important.” 

Stiles rolled his eyes. 

“Look, I have some patchy memories in my early life. I honestly have no idea.” 

Derek swallowed. 

“Sit up there. You’re carbon-based, we’ll figure it out that way.” He gripped Stiles’s left arm. “This will hurt.”

“Geez, doc, didn’t anyone teach you about bedside— _shit-fuck-ow_!” Derek ignored Stiles’s cry as he punctured skin, keeping his hand still until he got a good reading. Once the reading appeared Derek’s heart thudded and he quickly released the First Officer. Stiles hissed and rubbed his arm. “Well, what’s the verdict?”

Derek’s throat clicked and he couldn’t stop staring at the _kid_.

“Sixteen.”

Derek felt his inner Beast stir with ferocious protective instinct. He had to tell the Commander, he had to have Stiles removed from the Federation immediately he was too young to—

_Any disclosure of personal information of anyone on board, even to superior personnel, is a direct violation of this Non-Disclosure Agreement. The consequences of such violation include, but are not limited to: immediate removal from the assigned vessel, dishonorable discharge, and full criminal investigation and sentencing to the full extent of the law._

“Huh.” Stiles smiled, all teeth and adrenalin. “I don’t feel sixteen.”

Derek quickly realized that serving aboard the Beacon meant that he would frequently work outside his jurisdiction. Things like figuring out alien biology, modifying vaccinations to properly work in a foreign system, and regularly monitor such a being under the guise of check-ups. 

He started sitting with the First Officer and Officer Argent during his mess hall breaks, remaining silent as they traded inside jokes. 

Stiles didn’t seem to understand the concept of moderation. He hate ferociously or not at all. Derek was certain that those years the First Officer supposedly “lost” and couldn’t remember he must have been close to starving. 

He also only spared with Allison and when he did everyone who wasn’t on shift would go to the gym to watch. It was clear that only Allison was his partner because she was the only one who could handle him. The first time Derek attended he almost had a heart attack. 

Stiles didn’t spar. 

He fought like it was life or death. Derek remembered how close he’d come to tranquilizing them both when he saw Stiles sweep Allison’s feet out from under her and pounce only for her to knock him to the side so hard he hit the wall. He burned brighter than a newly formed star. Derek couldn’t help but think that those who burned brilliantly also were the first to extinguish. 

Derek hated seeing his uncle again, on the Den of all places. He hated the nauseating mixture of relief and shame to see him alive, but still insistent on flaunting his inner Beast. He hated that Stiles slapped the crew on their backs, smiling wide like they were on leave and hadn’t just liberated a criminal planet, like Stiles _hadn’t_ insisted on going first before sending up the flares that signaled the second squadron. He hated that Stiles was seventeen and he acted like it was normal. 

Three days after the Den’s rescue Derek rang the chime to Stiles’s quarters. It was late, but the Commander had a rare day off so Derek didn’t feel guilty about the hour. The door hissed open and Stiles yawned, rubbing his eyes roughly. 

“What can I do for you, doctor?” 

“May I come in?”

“Sure, sure.” 

Stiles stepped aside with another yawn. He was wearing shorts and a weathered tank top that was more holes than fabric. What grabbed Derek’s attention was the jacket Stiles had on. It was old, too big, and it had sloppy stitches holding it together. A gold badge was over the chest and it had letters engraved on it that Derek had never seen before. Stiles slumped on his couch, kicking his legs out as Derek sat on a nearby chair.

“So.” Stiles eyed the bottle of brandy in Derek’s hand. “What’s the occasion?” 

Derek poured them two glasses and slid one over to his Commander. 

“Your birthday. I don’t know if this is the _exact_ date, but the carbon testing is accurate within a window of a few days.” Stiles blinked and then gripped his glass so they could properly toast each other. “Happy eighteenth birthday. You’re officially a legal adult.” 

Stiles rolled his eyes. 

“Woo-hoo.” They drank. Derek didn’t mention that citizens had to be nineteen to enlist in the Academy. He took a long sip. “You didn’t tell me about the,” Stiles ran a hand over his nose and eyebrows before he bared his teeth at Derek, “thing.” 

Derek blushed like he was a pup. 

“It’s not information my people like to share.” 

“Oh.” Stiles frowned, his expressions much more animated when the alcohol kicked in. “Then, and I don’t mean to offend, why would Peter let loose in front of everyone? Seems like a shitty way to keep a culture’s secret.”

“That’s because my uncle is… a non-conformist when it comes to our traditions.” Derek tightened his grip on his glass, the words sticking in his mouth. Stiles reached over and squeezed Derek’s knee, his lips curling slightly. He was so young to the point of Derek being in constant fear for him, but he couldn’t imagine serving another Commander. “Weres used to be savages, animalistic in every way. Our planet was lush and full of wildlife but we drove them all to extinction. For the last six centuries we’ve altered our thinking. We suppress our Beasts and embrace our civility.” Derek spilled some brandy when he refilled his glass. “Peter believes the Beast is a blessing to be celebrated. He’s dangerous.”

“You’re not wrong.” Stiles shrugged. “I mean, at least he’s on a planet that fits. The Den isn’t exactly a peaceful refuge. 

Derek snorted.

“True.” 

He watched his Commander pick at frayed threads on his sleeve. He wondered if the rest of the crew saw how Stiles would get a faraway expression. It was the most he ever truly looked alien and made all sorts of questions press against Derek’s teeth.

_Why do you eat like it’s going to be taken away from you? How many people know about your biology and age? What will the Federation do once your tour is over? How long have you been living fight-or-flight?_

_Why did you leave your home planet?_

Stiles hugged his jacket tighter around him, the sleeves large enough that his hands disappeared in them. Derek swallowed, his throat tight. 

“What’s your planet like?”

His Commander stilled, his eyes wide and wet. His throat clicked each time he tried to speak and it took several minutes for him to find the words. 

“My planet is…” Derek didn’t know what was worse; Stiles’s eyes welling with unshed tears or how his voice rang hollow with ancient despair. “My planet is very green. We’re not very advanced, but we… we do okay with what we’ve got.” 

Stiles spoke in poetry, describing flora and outlandish species that tested the limits of Derek’s imagination. He promised that his planet had long stretches of water so vast that it was impossible to see the other side. 

Derek woke up in the same chair the next morning, his face wet and his eyes puffy. Stiles snored on the couch and drool spilled out of his mouth. Derek dragged a blanket off of the bed and tucked it around his Commander’s shoulders. 

::::

Isaac was good at two things: Numbers, and running. 

Math calmed him. Numbers were absolute, they didn’t lie, they didn’t tease, and they never left Isaac. Navigating for the Beacon was a dream come true. 

Running, well, running was something Isaac also understood. He ran so far and so fast that even his father couldn’t get him. He sprinted on the gym’s track and passed a few cadets. They used to try and match his pace but now they knew better. Isaac couldn’t be caught, his lungs burned and his legs were in pain, but he always had to go faster, must go faster—

He snapped out of his reverie when _First Officer Argent_ waved him down. He stopped immediately, which was a terrible idea because his knees locked and he was soon sprawled out across the tracks. A few chuckles made Isaac flush a twinkling violet as First Officer Argent helped him up. 

“Are you all right, Ensign Lahey?”

“Y-yes, ma’am.” 

First Officer Argent smiled at him and Isaac had to get away because surely she could hear his heart pounding in his chest. She was out of uniform, her body wrapped in tight gym gear that accentuated her moon-white skin and tattoos. She was a vision of all that was beautiful in the universe. 

“You’re very fast.” The Argents had a sharp accent that came through the universal translator. She looked him up and down and Isaac wanted to pull a sheet around him to hide what must look frail and weak to an Argent warrior. “I couldn’t beat you in a race. How is your self defense?” 

“I passed my exams.” Isaac swallowed. “I practice regularly at the shooting range—”

“I meant hand-to-hand. Melee weapons for when you do not have access to a Federation phaser.” 

After he passed his hand-to-hand courses at the Academy Isaac swore he’d never go back. The sound of flesh striking flesh made him sick. It brought back everything he’d been running from until his father was back and screaming at him—so close he could feel hot breath and spit on his face, and soon he’d hit him to _teach you a lesson, boy_ —

“—Lahey, can you hear me?” Someone was touching his face. Not hitting, just holding. They had calloused, warm hands. “Isaac?” Isaac and the world slowly came back into focus. First Officer Argent had her hands on his cheeks. “You are safe, Ensign.” 

“I’m sorry.” Isaac had to heave the words out. He felt sticky and rubbed raw. “I’m sorry, I know I just—I don’t do well in combat situations. I passed—passed the class.”

They were no longer in the gym; she must have taken Isaac somewhere private during his episode. He took a moment to glance around and he almost fainted when he realized he was in the First Officer’s private quarters. She didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. 

“I’m not doubting you, Ensign Lahey.” She took her hands away and it was both a loss and a relief. “I want my crew to feel safe, and that includes the ability to protect themselves. If you ever want to brush up on your hand-to-hand I could teach you some tricks.” 

“Oh, um, thank you but I—I don’t think I’m suited for it.” Isaac let out a huff of self-deprecation. “I don’t have the body for it. I’m not very strong.” 

“Psh.” First Officer Argent imitated the sound the Commander made whenever he thought something was rubbish. “Anyone can fight if they have the right tools and techniques. You have a similar build to Stiles and he’s one of the best warriors I’ve met.” It took an embarrassing amount of time for Isaac to realize she was talking about the _Commander_. “With the right moves you could be just as strong as him, I’m sure.”

The only reason Isaac didn’t laugh was because he never wanted to insult the First Officer. He excused himself graciously so that he could laugh hysterically in the privacy of his own quarters.

Commander Stilinski. 

The name brought on a swell of awe and admiration. He was untouchable yet grounded, elevated and yet approachable. Commander Stilinski knew his whole crew by name and when birthdays rolled around his gifts were surprisingly thoughtful. 

Isaac had four so far. He’d been given a paint set, an odd puzzle box that was held together by interchangeable magnets, a book of simplistic yet beautiful illustrations, and last year Isaac had gotten a knit sweater made out of wool from his home planet.

As soon as the Beacon docked on a small outpost for a brief leave Erica jumped on Isaac’s back, trilling happily. 

“Yes!” Erica worked in Engineering, her hands almost as nimble as her mind. She tickled Isaac, making him run straight into Boyd. “Are you ready to party it up all leave?” 

Boyd hooked his arm around Isaac’s shoulder and they went to the closest bar. 

Isaac liked Boyd and Erica. They’d been sweethearts since before the Academy and got married their first year aboard the Beacon. They complimented each other quite well and Isaac knew he was lucky that they decided to take him under their wing. 

“You know,” Erica leaned on him at the bar as Body ordered their drinks, “I thought you’d be off with Argent. Seeing as how you blew your first chance—”

“There was nothing to blow—”

“She _carried you_ back to her room. She offered to do hand-to-hand with you—”

Isaac covered his face with his hands. 

“Stop, I—”

Boyd saved him, his body warm against Isaac’s as he slid a drink into his hand. Isaac smiled graciously and Boyd returned it before kissing Erica. Isaac leaned his elbows on the bar, his cheek pressed against Boyd’s shoulder as the music ebbed and flowed around them. 

At the very end of the bar, tucked away in the corner—was the Commander. 

Isaac found it difficult to see the Commander as “just another guy” and not the brave hero that was shown on the videos from the Federation. Outside of his uniform he could be anyone.

There was someone with him. Their back was turned to Isaac so he couldn’t see their face. The Commander had his body angled toward the stranger; his legs slack and his back slouched. Erica and Boyd were laughing about something, and Isaac knew he should look away but—

But the stranger leaned in and the Commander’s smile fell, his face slack and suddenly he was stiff and tears slipped down his cheeks. Isaac flinched, squeezing his eyes shut because the Commander didn’t cry—he’d seen something he shouldn’t have—

When he opened his eyes the Commander and stranger were gone. 

::::

Stiles hated that he couldn’t remember his father’s voice but that he knew all the lyrics to the song playing on the radio the last time Stiles ever saw him.

His dad had a green truck with cracked leather seats. The passenger’s seat was chewed on the bottom like the previous owner’s dog had been hyperactive. Stiles would run his fingers over it when he felt his thoughts stray to dark, miserable places. He fiddled with the radio and hoped to catch something other than static. 

Finally a station appeared and Stiles remembered that it was a song his mom used to listen to. He hummed along, his grip on the chewed up leather tightening as he stared at the convenience store. Even though he was nine and he knew better— _he did_ —he still got nervous waiting for his dad. His chest tightened every passing minute as that little-kid paranoia returned with a _What if he left me?_

But he never left. _“Of course I’d never leave, Stiles. I’m with you; I’ll always be with you. It was just a bad dream.”_ His father would insist as he held Stiles after a bad night. His father jogged back to the car and Stiles could remember the _ker-chunk_ of the door opening but not what his father sounded like. 

“They still had some orange soda left.” He opened Stiles’s bottle for him because the twist caps would hurt his hands. They clinked the glass bottles together. “Happy birthday, kid.”

He remembered thinking the words sounded awful, that he wished his father hadn’t said anything because this was the first birthday he’d spent without his mom. He had a feeling his father tasted it, the tired and beat-down tone he’d used, but he couldn’t take it back. It was already out there. 

His name was Stiles Stilinski. His father was John and he was the Sheriff of Beacon Hills, California. He lived in a two-story red house, it was the second house on Millbrook road, and his favorite drink was Stewart’s orange soda. Stiles repeated these facts as a mantra but still couldn’t bring his dad’s voice back. 

Stiles remembered his dad had nodded off in the car. He took the empty bottle from his hand and slid out of the truck. The recycling can in the parking lot wasn’t more than thirty feet away. Stiles walked, singing his mother’s song under his breath. He listened to the glass crash loudly in the bin. 

_Next year will be different,_ Stiles thought with little conviction, _time makes it better._

He turned to face the truck and the door he left open. Once he tried to take a step his legs wouldn’t move. Stiles couldn’t look down and his whole body _wouldn’t move_ , he couldn’t _breathe_ —

The street lamp above him burst and Stiles tried to scream but he had no air in his lungs. As the impossible light engulfed him, he was forced to watch as the world faded into bright white. Stiles wasn’t sure if he saw his father react or if he’d just imagined it. 

Being transported was a lot like jumping off into the deep end of a pool. There was a moment of unexplainable vertigo and popping in his ears—and then Stiles was facedown on a cold metal floor. His limbs prickled, like his whole body was asleep. He forced himself to bend his knees and push himself up—only to come face-to-face with a monster with five eyes and mandibles. 

Stiles screamed as he scrambled away, as a clawed hand closed around his wrist, and as the monster gurgled at him. Stiles screamed until his voice gave out, but no one was listening. 

Thirteen years later Stiles idly watched his crew unwind at a cozy bar in a random outpost. He learned that remaining hateful at a whole universe that seemed to know everything _except_ that there was a planet Earth was a useless exercise. 

Allison made her rounds and waved at an adorably flustered Lahey. He was lucky he was with Boyd and Erica; they were a solid support system. Allison bumped her shoulders against a grumpy Derek at the bar, and a boisterous Lydia pulled them both out onto the dance floor. 

Stiles leaned his back against the wall and noticed Peter’s approach. 

Peter Hale was an… enigma. 

He certainly didn’t present himself as one, which only puzzled Stiles further. To anyone with functioning eyes or optics Peter was a confident man who, at a moment’s notice, would seduce anyone in the room. He had a permanent smirk and swagger that made a crowd instinctually part. 

Stiles also knew he was gentle, whether it be during sexual foreplay or aftercare, his touches were feather-light. He listened, drinking every word greedily because to him information was worth more than money. His eyes softened when he got to Stiles and Stiles smiled. 

“Hey.” Peter’s body cut off the view of his crew. Stiles reached out to grip Peter’s hip. “Long trip?”

“I’ve had worse.” 

Peter grinned and Stiles was suddenly _starving_ for him. He pulled him closer, his intent unmistakable. Years of meeting up whenever they could had lessened Stiles’s initial nervousness. He was shocked when Peter put his hand on Stiles’s wrist to stop him as he stepped back.

Stiles knew his smile dropped and he felt a cold shiver run through him. 

“Stop worrying.” Peter smirked. Stiles wanted to punch his mouth and then kiss him. “I have something to show you. I had a feeling you’d appreciate seeing it now than later.” Peter pulled his tablet out of his jacket pocket. “I found this—well, you don’t want to know _where_ I found this for liability reasons,” he winked, “but I need to know if this looks familiar before I follow this lead.” 

He handed over the tablet and once Stiles caught a glance of the image he almost dropped it. 

On the tablet’s glossy screen was a photo of Earth. Drawn on the side was a star map of the surrounding planets and stars in the system—the standard for a discovery of a new planet. 

Stiles could taste Stewart’s orange soda bubbling on his tongue. He didn’t realize he was crying until Peter wiped the tears from his cheek with one hand, the other taking the tablet back. 

Stiles wiped at his eyes clumsily and he forced his breathing to even out. 

“Come on.” Peter grabbed Stiles’s arm. “I have a room. “

Stiles moved quickly, not wanting his crew to see him so shaken. He staggered to the mattress as Peter locked the door. He gripped the edge of the bed like he gripped the chewed up leather. 

“Thank you.” Stiles marveled at his steady voice as he met Peter’s gaze. “Thank you for bringing this to me.”

When Stiles reached for Peter he wasn’t pushed away. 

They didn’t fuck that night. Stiles wasn’t sure if there was a word for what they did.

Stiles needed to be full. Peter granted his wish, but everything was softer, more subdued. Instead of making Stiles breathless with rough thrusts Peter kissed the air from his lung. Stiles shivered, spent and dizzy. Peter’s knot was still going strong. 

They both laid out on their side. Peter ran his fingers down Stiles’s back in hypnotic motions. 

During their first dalliance Peter had said that the knot was not a common occurrence, yet it happened every time. If there was a reason, Peter wasn’t providing a direct answer. Peter pressed lazy kisses to Stiles’s neck and shoulder. 

“Does the pretty planet have a name?”

Stiles turned and Peter’s breath caught, his hips trembling. 

“It does. Earth.” Stiles let his eyes close. “Tell me when you find something—if you need more confirmations. If you call I’ll answer.”

Peter was asleep by the time Stiles had to leave. Allison and Derek were waiting for him at the docks and they boarded the Beacon together. 

When he was nine he had no concept of patience. All it took was for him to be abducted and truly lost in space to nurture that practice. He walked the halls of his ship, peering out of the windows at the glittering stars and nebulas. He’d traveled farther than most and he knew that he’d done well. He had a great crew and he hoped they knew just how much Stiles appreciated them. 

He could taste the orange soda and he hummed the song on the radio. 

He hoped his father would understand why Stiles took so long, that it had been the only way—the only chance he had in finding a way home. _Home_. He hoped that his father would understand that Stiles hadn’t been alone. 

The missions continued and so did his crew’s bonding. Stiles organized shift game nights and even managed a leader board for an obstacle course team race. 

The bracket had almost wrapped up that month and Stiles ended his Alpha shift with an update. 

_“Attention, FSS Beacon. Don’t forget that the semi-finals of our obstacle race will begin in forty-eight hours. Ensign Martin is heading the bets. I hope to see everyone—”_

Stiles jerked his hand back when the lights on the entire ship flickered. He whirled around to Allison. 

“Officer, what’s going on?”

Ensign Martin cleared her throat, her skin ashen. 

“We’re being hailed sir. The transmission is—it’s from a Federation Admiral.” 

Stiles’s communicator pinged—a message from Peter. He swallowed, straightening his shoulders. 

“Put it through, Lydia.”

He could feel his Alpha crew stare at him, at his whisper-thin voice. The front window flickered and Admiral Fox appeared. Stiles recoiled, he could hear the roar of danger in his ears and he hated that it was because of Admiral Fox. 

_“Good evening, Commander.”_

“Admiral.” Stiles smiled despite his tongue becoming sticky and sour. “It’s good to see you. Did you want to come aboard, for old time’s sake? The crew would love that, sir.” 

The Admiral looked uncomfortable. Stiles might have felt guilty about it once, but he felt nothing except the thrum of approaching battle drums.

_“Commander Stilinski, I’m here because I was informed that you’ve taken the Beacon and her crew hostage, that you’ve accepted bribes from exiles on The Den and—”_

“That’s bullshit!” Everyone, including the Admiral, was shocked into silence when Isaac stood from his chair. “Admiral Fox, perhaps someone is pulling a prank. We are all serving Commander Stilinski of our own free will—”

_“Ensign Lahey, I was not addressing you.”_ Stiles’s grip on the railing tightened when Isaac flinched. _“I’m aware of just how charismatic Commander Stilinski can be. The fact of the mater is—he’s not from a registered planet. We have no idea what a creature like him is capable of,”_ said the man who served with Stiles for over a year, _“and prolonged contact with him could be dangerous.”_

Stiles communicator rang. Peter was calling. He hated how red his cheeks felt and how sweat gathered on the back of his neck.

_“First Officer Argent.”_

Allison jumped, tearing her eyes away from Stiles. 

“Yes, sir?”

_“I am giving you Command of the FSS Beacon. Apprehend Stiles Stilinski and bring him to the transporter deck where we will take him into protective custody. We’ll be sending over our coordinates shortly.”_

Admiral Fox cut the transmission. The bridge was silent except for Stiles’s ringing communicator. Stiles glanced at Allison.

“Commander—”

“Fuck that.” Allison jutted her chin out. “I’m _not_ bringing you in, _Commander_ Stilinski.” 

Stiles turned to Boyd, his third in command, but the pilot rolled his eyes. 

“Don’t’ look at me, Commander. I follow orders from you.”

Stiles had been betting on his crew’s loyalty but it was another thing entirely to witness. He took a deep breath, his knuckles white. 

“Ensign Martin, send a ship wide message to brace themselves for impact from hostiles. Boyd, get our weapons at the ready, and Lahey, find us a place to outrun them,” Stiles answered his communicator, the bridge flying into action, “Peter, please tell me you’ve got something because it’s the last piece I need.” 

::::

Optimism was a sweet and terrible lie. 

Peter supposed that optimism was useful for children but everyone had to grow up. 

The Federation was happy to parade Weres as a peaceful race ruled by wisdom and logic—but they counted on the Weres’ Beast instinct when they recruited them. There was a reason that most Weres in the Federation were doctors. It was smarter to assign someone whose instinct to protect a pack would bleed over into protecting a crew. 

Peter flew back to the Sirius system. He kept quiet as he landed on his home planet, a place he hadn’t been in decades. He striped off his jacket and left it on his ship. He wondered if Stiles was an optimist as he stared at the long winding trail that led to the Blackwell Estate. 

The mountains and sands were relentless and Peter wasn’t in shape like he had been when he was young. Sweat washed over his skin and he pushed through nausea and cramped muscles until he came to Deucalion’s impressive castle. Peter knocked and wondered what system the Commander was flying through. Did he ever think of Peter when he was alone, did he ever think of him when he was in the crowd of his crew—did he feel _tied_ the same way Peter did?

It was a feeling that was as miserable as it was enrapturing. When they were together Peter felt… giddy, the closest he’d come to using the word _love_. Apart was an endless winter where color drained away until the world was grey.

Peter thought that mates had been another evolutionary aspect that Weres left behind. 

He was wrong. 

“Peter Hale.” Deucalion _tap-tap-tapped_ his way to Peter. He reached for Peter’s hand and Peter took it. “You still have the same stink to you.” 

Deucalion flashed his teeth. 

“And you have the same charm.”

“What brings you here, Peter?” 

“Oh, nothing too important. I picked up something that I think belongs to you.” Peter walked with Deucalion deeper into his home. “It’s a simple map of a planet not on the Federation registry. It has your stamp on it. It’s a blue planet—

Deucalion stilled. His sightless eyes widened. 

“Earth?” Deucalion grinned, his teeth sharp on the edges. “You’ve met my Pale Ghost, haven’t you?” 

They passed encased collections from all over the universe. Plants, pictures, art—Deucalion was a famous collector of worldly things. Peter was numb when Deucalion pulled up a video on his tablet despite not being able to see. 

Peter saw the footage from an old security feed, and he saw a pale child crying—even though there was no sound he knew the boy was screaming as a universal translator fused to his temple. He watched the boy writhe, vomit, and claw at his captors. His shirt was torn, his back to the camera, and Peter recognized the pattern of brown specks that adorned the boy’s flesh.

“That little menace was all I got out of that waste of a barbaric planet. It took weeks for it to properly activate our translator. It didn’t stop screaming and it killed my crew.” Deucalion sighed dreamily. “I was able to retrieve my ship but by the time I got there all that was left was my crew’s remains. That beast escaped.” Peter’s heart rate increased. Deucalion didn’t notice. “If you return him to me I’ll give you a handsome sum. What do you say, Hale?” 

Peter wasn’t sure how much time had passed before the Blackwell Estate was on fire. Blood dried in sticky patches on his skin as he flew the late-Deucalion’s ship—the cargo holder he’d kept a small frightened boy years ago. Peter took maps and correspondence, but he left everything else to burn. 

He sent Stiles a message asking for his location. He’d kept their correspondence light the few months that followed Stiles’s confirmation. Peter focused on finding the owner of the photo… and that was all he had to do in order to repay the favor. He knew this, yet he didn’t regret satisfying the bloodlust that coursed through him. Peter took the cargo ship because if it could make it to Earth once it could do it again. 

After he cleaned his skin he called Stiles and let it ring. The Commander would want to hear about the new development. When Stiles finally did pick up Peter hadn’t expected to be dragged into the middle of a fight between two Federation ships. 

“Damn it.” Peter could pilot a ship but complex maneuvering was not his forte. He looked up from the controls to see the Beacon getting fired upon by a much larger military ship. “Fuck.”

_“Peter, stay with me.”_ Commander Stilinski was firm, somehow calm as his shields took another hit. _“Are you familiar with transporter navigation tools? Could you bring us onto—?”_

“No.” Peter ground the answer out. “I don’t know how—I’d lose whoever I was trying to bring aboard.” 

_“Stay where you are, Peter.”_

The Commander cut the communication line. The Beacon’s shields were weakening and Peter was helpless. The air thickened and there was a harsh scent of electrified ozone before a pulse of light came from the transporter room. Peter was on his feet in an instant, flinging the doors open. 

It wasn’t Stiles groaning on the floor. 

“Ugh, what model system is this?” A lithe man stood, his blonde hair in disarray around his head. He got up, his legs shaking as he went to the transporter controls. He ignored Peter and activated his communicator. “Commander, I made it aboard. Tell Boyd to start evading.” 

Peter turned around to see that the Beacon had been holding back. Peter could barely keep track of it. In the other room the stranger continued. 

“It’s an older system so your limbs will feel lethargic but I got you—I got you—”

The tightness in the air returned as Peter went back to the transporter room right before it burst with light. Four bodies hit the floor with fleshy thuds. Peter felt the massive knot in his stomach loosen when he saw Stiles push himself up on shaking arms. His nephew, First Officer Argent, and a curvy redhead were the others, all groaning in discomfort.

_“Isaac,”_ a deep voice from the blonde’s communicator spoke, _“they’re good?”_

“They’re good.” Isaac slumped in his chair and covered his face with his slender hands. “You can go to warp. Give Erica my love.” 

The cargo ship shook with the echoes of the battle. A faint, _“Stay safe, Lahey,”_ whispered through the transporter room before the Beacon went to warp, the Federation ship quickly following. The eerie calm just increased Peter’s unease. 

“Fuck.” Stiles’s voice cracked, his pupils barely visible as he got a look at his surroundings. “Fuck—”

“Hey.” Peter gripped his shoulders and let his claws prick Stiles’s skin. Stiles blinked and Peter increased the pressure until he shuddered and hissed. “Commander, you’re safe.” 

Allison rolled onto her back with a grunt. 

“That’s relative.” She reached out to grab Stiles’s ankle. She pushed up the fabric of his slacks so she could rub his bare skin. “We’re with you, Commander.” 

“Right.” Stiles closed his eyes and took a centering breath. Peter let him go. When he opened his eyes the color had returned to his face. He helped the redhead to her feet while Allison helped a groaning Derek. “Of course.” 

He shot Peter a harsh glare that made words tumble out of Peter’s mouth with alarming speed.

“This ship has made the journey to Earth before. I found it where my lead took me.” 

Stiles clenched and unclenched his fists and Peter could barely keep his fangs in check. He felt as though Stiles’s screams as a child painted the walls in a permanent, invisible stain. 

“And the owner?” 

The Federation officers gained their bearings. Isaac was given a round of hugs, even from Derek. Stiles held Peter’s gaze and Peter flicked a dried clump of crimson from under his nails. 

“He’s passed away. I doubt his ghost will miss this ship.” 

Peter was formerly introduced to everyone. Lydia hid her apprehension with a vicious smile and firm handshake. Isaac wasn’t nearly as capable and he snatched the maps out of Peter’s hands before turning back to with a stammered, “I-I’ll start plotting a course.”

Peter lingered on the outskirts as Stiles, a now exiled Commander, looked over the plotted course, the most loyal of his crew around him. It would take the equivalent of six months, but the ship was capable. 

He knew Derek had a thousand questions for him and Peter hoped his _affection_ for Stiles wasn’t obvious. Stiles clasped his hand on Isaac’s shoulder. 

“Great work, Isaac.” The navigator flushed violet and Stiles was courteous enough not to mention it. “Since we’re all going to be sharing close quarters for six months are there any questions or requests? I’ll go first. I’d like to eat our dinners together. We can be separated for the whole day, but dinners will be a shared time.” 

There was a murmur of agreement among his crew before they all glanced around, waiting for the brave soul to go next. 

“I have a request, sir.”

Lydia spoke up. Stiles smiled, crooked and weary. 

“How about we go by first names, Lydia. I’m not much of Commander anymore.”

Behind his back Allison, Derek, and Isaac exchanged a brief glance with Lydia like they didn’t agree. Neither did Peter. 

“Very well, Stiles.” She passed over his name with casual grace despite her pink cheeks. “I’d like for us to sing to hear our natural languages. Besides, if we’re going to be landing on Earth we should learn the language in case we can’t speak through you.” 

“You,” Stiles pinched her side, “just want me to embarrass myself by singing again.”

Everyone laughed, even Peter, and it was like a dam broke. Suddenly everyone was short of breath, holding onto each other as they celebrated being _alive_ as they traveled toward an unknown planet. They ended up sprawled out on the floor of the bridge. 

Peter was squished between Allison’s chest and Derek’s back, his fingers digging into Stiles’s calf as Stiles rested his head Isaac’s lap while Lydia draped her arm across his chest. 

Eventually the laughter faded until all that was left was unforgiving silence of space. The levity ended and Peter was sure at least one person thought, _What have I done?_

Or they would have, but Stiles started to sing. 

::::

Allison patrolled the ship. It was her second-to-last shift and the cargo vessel sailed through space in tense silence. Her bare feet were quiet against the cold steel floor as she checked in the main rest area. Lydia was curled up on a cot and Isaac had his head tilted back, his breaths long and heavy. 

She crept toward the showers and heard soft grunts and a clamped down scream of pleasure. She shook her head and left to give Peter and Stiles a semblance of privacy. 

Derek stood on the bridge, over three hours early to his shift. He stood at the window, his eyes drawn to the hypnotic blur of galactic bursts.

At first they’d all ridden the giddy adrenalin high. She remembered the heavy gloom of Admiral Fox’s declaration. She’d felt a rage that pushed past the hopelessness and the promise of facing a military tribunal for war crimes because of her loyalty to her true Commander. 

She couldn’t bring herself to regret it, especially since the entire crew shared her view. Even Isaac, who always looked like he wanted to disappear and be forgotten, had shouted as he ran to the transporter room, _“I’ll go first and bring you there. I can lock onto you. Once I get myself on, I’ll—”_ before he was gone. Lydia came as the lead linguist, Derek as the doctor most familiar with Stiles’s medical history, and Allison because… because ever since Stiles had made a bet with her during their Academy days she knew she’d follow him to the ends of the universe. 

Derek leaned back against Allison and tilted his head until it rested on her shoulder. Allison stroked her fingers through his hair. 

“Can’t sleep?”

“Of course not.” Derek growled when Allison paused her petting. She resumed with a small smile. “I don’t see how anyone can.”

“To their credit, only Lydia and Isaac are asleep. Peter and Stiles are—”

“Ugh, please don’t.” Derek stepped away from her with a dramatic eye roll. “Not when we’re so close to the infamous Earth.”

Even it’s name sounded majestic. It fit, Allison thought, since Commander Stilinski’s name would also live on forever. The five of them remained awake until Isaac slowed the ship. 

“Okay, we’ll lower our speed and—” As the ship dropped out of warp everything stopped and _there it was_. Isaac’s throat clicked as he swallowed. “ _Whoa_.” 

_Earth._

It was everything that Stiles had promised. Vibrant blues that bled into green land, dotted with snow-white clouds. Stiles sniffed and he didn’t bother wiping his eyes. The reflection of his planet cast its colors on his skin and he grinned. 

“I’ve got our cloak activated so we won’t appear on radar.” Isaac dipped them into the atmosphere and everyone grabbed onto something as the ship shook. Isaac’s teeth chattered as he forced the ship to slow. “Just hang on while I get us into a workable position.” They dropped into white clouds and when they broke through Isaac hiccupped, his eyes wide. “Commander—I mean, Stiles—”

“It’s okay, Isaac.” Allison could barely hear Stiles over her own heartbeat. Lydia squeezed her hand and Peter let out a small, alarmed animalistic sound. Endless expanses of blue loomed below them as Isaac steadied the ship. “That’s the ocean. That’s just water, Isaac.” 

Stiles directed Isaac calmly, pointing out landmasses and giving them names. They flew cloaked, allowing them time to gawk at the setting sun’s light gleaming off the water’s surface. 

Isaac flew them over the water until the horizon began to twinkle in the dark. The buildings were archaic in their design and materials. They passed over sand and then the land returned to a green color and the water was no longer visible. 

“Here is good.” Stiles’s voice was higher in pitch and he kept wringing his hands. “Just make sure we’re tucked away from any structures or civilization. My—the people of Earth don’t know that there is life beyond this planet.” 

Stiles suggested they use one of the old grounder-growlers in the cargo bay as transportation. It was an open-top land vehicle that Stiles said should pass as an Earth “car” if no one looked too closely. They all hoped the night’s darkness would work in their favor. 

Everyone wore thin body armor and Allison kept her weapon drawn just in case. She sat in the back, always on her Commander’s six. Derek and Peter sat on either side of her while Lydia and Isaac clambered to the front to direct Stiles. Chilled wind blew through Allison’s hair and they passed a few vehicles and houses. Stars twinkled above them and somehow the universe had never seemed so vast until that moment. 

“This planet would have been labeled as under-developed. If the Federation had found it there would have been a strict no-contact policy.” 

Stiles turned and the road became narrower and was surrounded by thick trees. Derek gripped the sides of the ground-growler tightly. Peter’s eyes were razor-sharp under the moon and Allison would have flinched if she were younger. 

“Under-developed is not an accurate label for this planet and its people.”

They rode for hours. 

Eventually Lydia and Isaac crawled into the back to sleep restlessly. Isaac’s cheek pressed against Allison’s shoulder. Derek was at Isaac’s back with one arm around Lydia, the other around Allison. He was breathing deeply but Allison knew that the doctor wasn’t asleep. 

Behind them Stiles continued to drive with Peter by his side. 

“I, uh, I never said thank you.” Stiles spoke in a hushed tone. “You didn’t have to go as far as you did. Hell, you didn’t have to come all the way to Earth.”

Allison realized with a chilling clarity that she knew Stiles better than anyone. Stiles was fearless with his own life and he somehow balanced viciousness with logical intellect and a fair hand. When it came to being a Commander Stiles had eternal certainty. With emotional details that couldn’t be solved with a joke Stiles was awkward. 

They’d all had six months to let secrets and grievances bubble to the surface but none did. But there was no doubt that Stiles had been sitting on this ever since their numb bodies landed in the cargo ship’s transporter room. 

“Your escape was last minute, there wasn’t much time to figure out who went where.” Peter spoke breezily and Allison knew it was all bullshit, she just hoped Stiles heard it was well. The moon lit their path and soft animal murmurs sighed over the wind. “I was curious about this pretty blue planet. It did not disappoint.” 

Stiles heaved a few thick huffs of air in a labored laugh. 

“Glad you liked the grand unveiling.”

The sky lightened from an inky black to grey periwinkle. They drove past a sign with large letters but Allison couldn’t read it, another harsh reminder of just how far Stiles had come and how drastically he’d adapted. Derek’s hand squeezed hers and Isaac stirred. Lydia opened her eyes just as Peter cleared his throat. 

“Stiles.” His voice was fragile; the kind of voice one gets late at night or very early in the morning, a voice that had been rubbed raw with salt and anxiety. “Stiles, are you—?”

“Guys, wake up!” Stiles spoke loudly and Allison couldn’t be sure if he’d heard Peter or not. She turned to see her Commander was pink in the face, his eyes glassy. “We’re here.”

No one went through the motions of pretending to be asleep. Allison holstered her weapon while Lydia and Isaac fought for the same spot to hold onto while Derek pressed the heel of his hand to Stiles’s face and neck. 

“You feel feverish. When’s the last time you ate something or had a decent night’s sleep?”

The ground-growler rolled to halt. They were in front of a… well, Allison knew Stiles would call it a house but she shuddered to think of the red _wooden_ shack in front of her as a suitable home. Stiles ducked out of Derek’s reach, his smile too wobbly to be believed. 

“I haven’t slept in the last three days. I just need a few more hours then I’m all yours to sedate and inject with vitamins, I swear.” Derek growled when Stiles ruffled the doctor’s hair before he turned to the house’s door. He knocked it with his fists and then pressed his ear against the door. The six of them waited for several minutes, but nothing happened. Stiles laughed, a bit hysteric. “Well, that was anti-climactic.” 

“I’ll break the door down.” Allison hated how Stiles’s lower lip quivered. “It’s made out of wood, it’ll be easy—”

Stiles held up his hand.

“Wait, hold on, I remember,” he jumped into shrubbery and dug in the dirt. Lydia shot Allison a _look_ before Stiles leapt out of the plants, dirt coating his fingers as he brandished an odd carved piece of metal. “Got it. Give me a second.” He slid the metal into a hole in the door and twisted his wrist. A _click_ rattled the wood before Stiles pushed it open with a grin. “Welcome to my house.” 

Stiles went in first, Allison second, and Peter last. Every step creaked on the wood and dust swirled in the air. Isaac wrung his hands, his eyes wide and darting from trinket to trinket. Lydia was more bold, inspecting the pictures that hung on the wall, the most prominent a picture of a man, wife, and a child between the two—

Allison stared at the image of the young Commander who grinned wide and carefree. Stiles ran around the house, calling out for his father until he eventually went silent. He walked into a room with a table and various odd tools. He touched a machine that had a sharp, murky scent to it. 

“My dad, he works late. He made coffee and it’s cold so… he should be home soon.” Stiles swallowed. “Want to see the house?”

“Yes.” Isaac spoke up, his eyes darting around the group. “I-I would.” 

“Great.” Stiles moved with familiarity within the stark, archaic environment. The younger Ensigns were endlessly fascinated with the house, but Derek, Peter, and Allison were ready to support their Commander. “Follow me. I’ll see if I can find my embarrassing baby pictures.” 

::::

Sheriff John Stilinski pulled out of the police station in his green truck. It had seen better days, in fact it was more of a hazard than help, but he couldn’t bring himself to sell it. His eyes darted down to the passenger’s seat, to the chewed up leather, and he quickly glanced away. 

Beacon Hills was a great little town tucked away in Northern California. It always had fog rolling through and people still waved to their neighbors. John knew everyone in town and he could drive every patrol with his eyes closed. He turned his truck into his street, the travel crunching under his tires the same way it did the day before. 

Yes, Beacon Hills was a nice town.

His foot slammed on his brake and his truck lurched. He threw his truck into park and got out, unable to tear his eyes from the vehicle in his driveway. 

It looked like something out of a movie, gleaming crushed silver arranged in a scale-like formation that made it look more like an insect than a car. When he ducked down to take a peek he leapt back when he found that there were _no wheels._

John backed away from the vehicle and a cold sweat broke out over his skin. 

Bubbling laughter made John turn back to his house. All the lights were on and music was playing. His hand hovered over the pistol on his hip, his chest tight as he opened the door. 

The first thing he noticed were the boots kicked to the side in the foyer. Six pair—all vaguely military, but John didn’t recognize any of the symbols on them. His house felt warm for the first time in years. The music came from the living room, more specifically, his wife’s Cat Stevens album. His throat tightened and he was blinded by a flash of rage and grief so raw that he stumbled into the living room, ready to face the punks that thought it was funny to break into the Sheriff’s house—

John froze, his breath burning his lungs and his mind a blank roar. Five monsters stood in his living room; there was no better word to describe them other than _monsters_ since they were not close to human. All of their eyes were on him as Cat Stevens sang through John’s speakers. But the monsters weren’t why John’s eyes sung as he shuddered down to the bone. 

A man stood with his back to him, dressed in silver metal armor with colorful medals and stripes adorning his shoulders. He had been singing, his voice deep and warbled off-key. He was human; John knew it like he _knew_ the people of Beacon Hills. 

It was the moles on the back of his neck. It was how he knew all the words to Claudia’s favorite song. The monsters hissed out an impossible name that was like a punch to John’s stomach. The human stopped singing and his posture stiffened. 

The song ended. The man turned and John’s heart thudded as the whole universe stood still. 

 

 

_Stiles?_

_Is that you?_

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I see Star Trek Beyond, watch a bunch of Mass Effect + Suicide Squad mash up trailers, and can't let go of the fact that human beings are pretty kick ass. 
> 
> I hope the exposition wasn't too jarring and I hope it was interesting enough to be worth your while. I can never do things in halves, it seems, and so... if you read this thank you, and please, PLEASE let me know what you think, good or bad, I want to hear it all!


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